Don't Read Too Much Into It
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Sometimes, guilt can make you do just as crazy of things as love can. But love is always a factor as well, at least on one end. .:. post-NBK. Dave/Kurt/Blaine. oneshot. rated T for swearing.


**A/N: Umm. Okay. So, a lot of people don't realize this about me, but I'm a total sucker for unrequited love, triangle pairings, and all of the angst that comes with such. Or perhaps they **_**do**_** realize, since I've written for such a thing quite a few times. But I digress. The point is, the second I watched NBK, I completely fell into a downward spiral of LOVING the Dave/Kurt/Blaine mess. It screams out to me for all sorts of yummy, slushie-flavored reasons. And thus, after much reading of all of the Kurtofsky and Klaine I could get my cursor on, I decided to write this. To Muse music. Because their music is great for angst for some reason. I dunno why. But it also works for the pairing, like 'Undisclosed Desires' and 'Space Dementia' and their version of 'I Love You, Baby' a.k.a. 'Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You.' XD**

**By the way: this is my first time writing for the Gleekdom, and I honestly haven't seen every single episode, so if ANYBODY is out of character or I mess up a detail, I apologize severely. And ahead of time, no less! D:**

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The private school boy glances back and forth between the stairwell and Kurt's face a few times, a bit at a loss at how to comfort him. He gives a little sigh. "Come on," Blaine says at length, trying to give his new friend a reassuring smile. "Let me buy you lunch."

And with a nudge, the two are standing, Kurt clutching the strap of his bag for dear life as he follows who can only be described as the guy of his dreams down the stairs and out onto the parking lot.

But something feels so very wrong here. Kurt Hummel can be self-absorbed, but he isn't so much so all the time that he fails to see how his actions can affect others. And at this very moment, he knows without a doubt that he somehow screwed up. Royally. What is his life going to be like now? More torment? More reasons to run and hide behind Blaine? And what happened to his so-called courage?

Kurt minutely shakes his head while Blaine talks to him about something related to singing. Sure, it's perfect, isn't it? Blaine is a great singer, and in his school's Glee Club, which they've given the title of 'show choir.' And Blaine has thick eyebrows, sure, but they hardly distract from his sleek jaw line and captivating smile and long eyelashes and richly hazel eyes. The boy is gorgeous, everything Kurt could ever want.

So why can't Kurt stop thinking about how _Karofsky_ of all people must feel at this very moment?

.o0o.

"Kurt?" Burt asks the second he sees the expression on his face when the boy comes home. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Kurt mutters tiredly, his tone listless and heaving with a sigh. He drops his bag down on the floor near the sofa before collapsing onto it.

The concern doesn't leave Burt's face. After his heart attack, he's wanted nothing more than to get closer to his son; what if he never has the chance again? What if another heart attack and miniature coma steals his life? It's become his greatest fear.

"Come on, son," Burt says gently, taking a seat next to the teen. "You can talk to me. I'm your father! I have life experience, remember?"

"Not with boys, you don't," Kurt says with a roll of his eyes. He father is so very accepting, but how far can that possibly go?

Burt shakes his head. "You seem to fail to realize that fathers never have that experience, and yet they're able to help console their daughters – _and gay sons – _because of the fact that, hey, this dad used to be a teenage boy, too. Even if he didn't like other boys, he still knows what goes through the mind of a teenage boy."

Kurt snorts a laugh, but it slowly forms into a bittersweet smile. "All right, Dad, you win," he complies with a slightly reluctant sigh. Then, after a short moment, he spills. "You… might not believe this, Dad, but… you know that guy who loves to bully me?"

Burt frowns. "How could I forget? You've come home in a bad mood on more than one occasion."

"Yeah. Well, as it turns out…" he takes in a shaky breath. "As it happens, the meathead must have only been doing it to preserve his image and prevent any bullying directed toward himself, because… he kissed me. And… and that can only mean –"

"Dear Lord," Burt murmurs, "I always heard about the psychology behind homophobic bullies, about how they're fearful of their own sexualities and being discovered of it, but… I never thought –"

"Me either," Kurt says immediately. "Trust me, I was probably the person who least saw it coming." He hangs his head and rubs his temples with his slim, milky-skinned fingers. He sighs again. "And that's not even the worst part. I… I think he really likes me, Dad. You should have seen his face. All of the times he's physically hurt me seems not to compare to the expression of pure _agony_ on his face. I know I have every right to hate him, but… I can't," he says, finally returning his gaze to his father's. Tears begin slipping down his face, and his father looks as empathetic as always. "I just feel so guilty."

Burt brings his son into his arms and gently stokes his hair, most of the stiff hair gel gone after the wear of the day, leaving behind mostly soft sandy blond locks. "Shh," he soothes, and Kurt releases a sob. There is something about being in one's parent's embrace that makes one want to cry even more.

"Wh-what should I do?" Kurt mumbles into his father's shoulder. "What's going to happen now? I really like somebody else who I met recently, but… I feel like I should… a-apologize or something."

He father pulls away enough to look his son dead in the eye. "Do what your gut tells you. Your gut reaction is never wrong, Kurt; remember that. It's usually your instincts mingled with your heart. And you should always listen to what it tells you."

Numbly, Kurt wipes his tears. He deftly nods his head. "All right. Thanks, Dad," he adds, and picks up his bag, gives his father a peck on the cheek, and heads upstairs to his room. He wants nothing more than to ignore some of his homework and listen to a bit of music, singing quietly and brokenly, for a while. It usually calms him down until his tear-strained voice returns to normal and he's finally able to rest his mind for a bit.

.o0o.

Dave Karofsky, meanwhile, is at a complete and utter loss. He's currently at the gym his parents signed him up for a membership, and he's trying to release all f his aggressions into a punching bag.

He isn't much of a boxer, but it feels so damn _good_ – fucking _incredible,_ actually – to beat the stuffing out of the practice bag. He can hear the sand that's weighing it down at the bottom shift around angrily as he makes the entire chain and nylon rope combo holding the thing up tremble with impact. The blows themselves aren't nearly as strong as, say, a martial artist's would be, but dammit if it doesn't sound impressive. Dave could do real damage to somebody's ribs with this punches.

It's becoming difficult not to crack up in public, however. The jock is trying his best to keep his composure in this place, to keep himself from bursting into burning tears, tears of fear and self-loathing and fury.

Someone near him mutters to the person beside them, "Well, somebody's pissed! Think his girlfriend dumped him?" they add softer, with more understanding. It's some middle-aged woman, a bit chubby, but clearly working off the fat she most likely gained from having a baby.

Panting from beating the punching bag with most of his strength, Dave pretends that he hadn't heard her. He guzzles some water, wipes his mouth roughly, and leaves the damned sweaty-equipment-smelling place.

He doesn't even remove the protective tape from his knuckles, or wash off the chalk that prevented any sweaty clumsiness. He doesn't even bother to clean where the tape broke along with his skin, blood already crusting on his knucklebones. Nope, he doesn't even care.

He simply piles into his car, revs the engine, and bangs his forehead onto the steering wheel as his hands quake, gripping the wheel until his fingernails dig into his palm.

He finally cries. He finally allows himself to, since he barely got out more than a sniffle and a few broken gasps before. He hasn't cried in… God, it must have been forever. 'Men don't cry,' his father always tells him. 'That's a woman's job.'

Well, then fuck him for being a woman! Fuck him for being a gaybo, for softening his fucking heart over a fag like Hummel! Does it even matter any longer, Dave wonders? Should he even care?

The problem is, Karofsky knows that it's not whether or not he himself cares; it's an issue of how the others care. It matters then. His parents care if he likes men. His school cares if he likes men. All of his friends care if he likes men. Especially flamboyantly girly ones like Kurt fucking Hummel.

Dave's hands lose their grip on his steering wheel. He lifts his forehead from the top of the handle, his head reclining backwards onto the headrest of his seat. His eyes flutter open, and he stares at the blank, grey ceiling of his car. A few snuffles escape him, soft and loud mingling together as he swallows hard and tries to find himself again.

What did it used to be like? It's almost impossible to remember a time when he hadn't stolen glances in the locker rooms during gym and practice, a time when he hadn't had this annoying, nearly overwhelming crush on Hummel.

Before, it had been pre- and the early stages of puberty, during a time when sexuality wasn't much of an issue yet for anybody. And then it gradually evolved once high school came around, and suddenly all the big lug is thinking about is how much he hates himself. They say bullies have low self-esteem and that's why they pick on others: to make themselves feel better about who they are and what power they have. And sometimes, what "they" say is dead-on.

Man, does Karofsky hate being part of that stereotype.

With a disgruntled growl and a heaving sigh, Dave clears his vision and puts his car in drive. He pulls out of the parking lot and heads for home… But he's sure to take the long way back, in order to give his puffy red eyes time to regress.

.o0o.

The following week, Kurt takes notice that he's only been shoved into the lockers twice, a record minimum for so many days and passing periods. And, he took note, the shoves had only come when Azimio was within the immediate vicinity. Otherwise, whenever they passed in the hallways, all Karofsky seemed to do was advert his gaze and duck his head, walking away.

The soprano is left fumbling with both the optimism that the torment will at least go down, and the trepidation that the worst is yet to come.

.o0o.

Being friends, Kurt sees nothing wrong with paying Blaine a surprise visit one afternoon as soon as school lets out. The private school's hours start and end an hour later than Kurt's own school, which is fortunate. He takes this as an opportunity to cross town and wait until the bell rings at the private academy to locate his developing crush.

But as soon as Kurt spots him, Blaine is acting far too friendly with some other guy.

Of course. Of course, this would happen. It always does; nothing ever goes right for Kurt when he wants it to. Of course. Life is just like that, right?

So why is he running away as if he could escape life?

.o0o.

Dave wakes from a dream that nearly tears him apart. He can almost feel his sanity breaking to pieces, the tension around the cracks finally buckling and giving way. Like a broken glass window, the only panel between being safely secluded indoors and falling stories to the ground.

The dream hadn't been erotic like some others he's had. But, like most of his dreams, Kurt Hummel once again plagued it.

In the dream sequence, Dave was running through a locker room maze, the rows of lockers and benches never-ending and ever-changing. He'd turn corners upon corners, running essentially in circles, his head growing dizzy from the sound of someone whimpering. And despite being classically conditioned to respond to the pain of others with a smirk, this time the protectiveness buried deep within him reared its head and took control.

In the dream, all the jock could think about was finding this whimpering individual and protecting them. Caring about them. Taking care of them, despite who it could be.

And of course the individual turned out to be Hummel. And of course the place he finds him is by Dave's own locker, like scene on the incident. Of course.

'What's up? You okay?' were the first words to fall from dream-Dave's lips.

Dream-Kurt simply looked up at him in disbelief, and then hatred. 'Of all the people to come to my rescue, it's the dragon instead of the knight in shining armor.'

Dream-Dave winced at that remark, but sat down beside Lady Face. For some reason, there was no ceiling above them; only a sky framed with trees and scattered rain clouds, the sun desperately trying to peek through. Dreams are like that; sometimes, they make no sense.

'I'm sorry I'm not who you wanted,' Dave retorted, more truth in the words than dream-him or real-him would ever admit. 'But I'm here, and despite what you think, I'm not such a monster.'

'That so?' dream-Kurt sniffled, and he had that scarf on – the one that Dave stole. 'And that's supposed to comfort me?'

Dave looked away. 'I wish it would.' He snorts and kicks at a random football helmet on the concrete locker room floor. There's grass beneath the bench they're on, though. 'I know I force myself not to show it, and I act the opposite, but I… really like you.'

Dream-Kurt sighed languidly and lay backward. Suddenly they were not on the bench any longer; they were in a small field littered with red lockers, nearly boxing them in. Kurt smiled suddenly. 'I never thought I'd hear that.'

'But it's true,' dream-Dave admitted as gently as he could. The real Dave would never say such a thing, true or not. 'I like you.'

Kurt snorted. His dream-self was oddly similar to his real-self, and it annoyed Karofsky a little. 'So that's why you came, then? Because you like me?'

Dave nodded. The dream grew fuzzy-white on the edges.

'Yeah, well… you cheered me up, at least. For just, you know, being here. Thanks, David.' And it sounded so strange coming from Kurt's mouth – Dave's own name, not 'Neanderthal' or 'meathead' or 'jock strap' or 'jerk' or 'asshole' – that Dave was distracted. He didn't see dream-Kurt leaning up, dream-Kurt touching his face, dream-Kurt giving the taller boy the second kiss he dove in for but didn't receive.

And while Kurt kissed Karofsky, dream-Kurt suddenly turned into water and slipped right through Dave's fingers, the grass absorbing the homosexual and leaving one other homo by himself, nothing but that damn scarf in his hands.

And that's when the fuzziness covered everything, and Dave stirred awake.

And now here he is, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling himself shred from the inside out. Nothing has ever been this complex. Sports were easy, simple, and rule-based. But sexuality and life and – dare he say it – love? It stings like a son of a bitch.

Karofsky crumples onto his side, his fingers worming their way into his short hair to tug as much as he can at the strands, making his head freeze and burn. He doesn't want this. He hates this. He wants it all to end.

Dave never asked to be gay. Dave never asked to be popular. Dave never asked to attend a homophobic school that won't allow him to show his true self the way Kurt does. Dave never asked to be jealous and frightened and in love.

He never asked for any of it. And yet he got it. How can there be karma without reason? He was only cruel to others because he had no choice! Right?

Isn't it better to be accepted by many than loved by one?

Isn't it?

Karofsky isn't so sure any longer. Not when all of the desperation he displayed in his kiss to Hummel is beginning to seep through the pores of his skin day in and day out, becoming all-consuming. The remorse isn't far behind.

.o0o.

Events often play out far differently than expected. When Kurt stood up for himself, he hadn't expected to receive his first kiss. And when he made a move to corner and question Karofsky a little over a week later out of sheer curiosity and 'listening to his gut,' he hadn't expected the muscled tough guy to weep.

The second that Kurt locates the jock in the empty school parking lot, Karofsky makes a face. A pained expression crosses the taller boy's face, and without hesitation, Karofsky barks, "Can't you leave me alone?"

Kurt pauses in his steps, his grip on his bag tightening. He lifts his chin defiantly, but his eyes and tone remain soft. "You know we need to talk, Karofsky."

"Does it look like I want to have a little chat with you, Lady Face?" the jock replies sharply. He yanks open his car door and attempts to get inside. But Kurt rushes forward and lightly touches the fuzzy, red sleeve of the brute's letterman jacket.

"I know I went about it the wrong way a while back, bringing Blaine into this –"

"That your butt-buddy's name?" Karofsky spits out, removing himself from his car and slamming it closed. "_Blaine?_" he says in a mocking falsetto, unadulterated jealousy evident in his voice.

Kurt swallows hard and squares his shoulders. He stands strong. "That's his name, yes, but I'll have you know that he and I are only friends. He… already has someone," he adds quietly, and doesn't look the jock in his smoldering chocolate eyes.

But the temperature in those eyes cools a bit as some of the jealousy recedes. "Oh." He pauses uncomfortably. "Sorry, I guess."

Kurt nods dumbly.

Karofsky releases an exasperated sigh, one large hand rubbing the back of his neck and through his hair. "Look…" he begins, and he can't seem to look at Kurt, either, not without his eyes prickling with tears. "I suck at this, okay? Talking to people, I mean. So could you just, y'know, _leave_? The last thing I need is you here."

The Glee Club member's jaw tightens at that. His voice raises a pitch with anger and frustration. "The last thing _you_ need!" Kurt parrots. "How do you think _I _feel? I don't want to be here any more than you want me here, but let's face the facts, bucko: you're clearly confused, and all I'm trying to do is help you! I don't have to, and I'd rather not since you honestly piss me off most of the time, but…" his tone gradually falls back down to its usual pitch. "I see part of myself in you, and I can't neglect it. You're just as terrified as me, aren't you?"

Karofsky smiles sarcastically. A snort escapes him. "You don't know the half of it."

"Then why won't you talk to me? I swear I won't say a word. I know I told someone about… what happened… but I was in shock, and besides, he isn't going to spill to anybody. He doesn't even attend McKinley, so even _if _he tells someone, no one he'd tell will know who you are."

Karofsky appears to take some comfort in this, relief spreading across his brows. But his lips form into a thin, straight line. "Why do you care, anyhow? I thought you wanted nothing to do with me."

Kurt winces at the clear pain in the brunet's words. "I only… want to know why you did it, that's all."

"Isn't it obvious?" the jock answers quietly. He glances nervously around for a moment before his eyes connect with Kurt's. "Or do you just want to hear me say it?"

"I don't want to assume too much. And I think _you_ really need to hear yourself say it aloud because you're afraid to," Kurt responds with the utmost confidence.

A bitter chuckle, short and crisp and scoffing, bubbles out from Karofsky's lips. He leans back against the side of his vehicle and slumps down onto the ground. "I don't even fucking _know_," he curses under his breath, but Kurt is still able to hear him. The choirboy takes a careful seat on the pavement beside the big lug, hoping he doesn't ruin his pants. Karofsky goes on, "I've tried to come up with a logical reason –"

"You, with logic? Imagine that," Kurt says teasingly, hoping to lighten the atmosphere.

The other male snorts another brief laugh. "Yeah, funny, isn't it? But seriously, I tried. I thought it was because your actions reminded me of an ex-girlfriend of mine. I thought it was because I could shut you up. I thought it was because you might understand, if no one else. And maybe I thought it would fix all the bad tension between us from years of me being an asshole. But really, I know why I did it, and I'm not proud of it. But part of the reason for my shame, I guess, is because of my fucking parents and their religious bullshit."

Kurt stares at Karofsky – no, Dave, because Karofsky is a name that should only be associated with the bully who harassed him, not the underlying personality Kurt is seeing now – incredulously, not sure what to say.

Suddenly, an idea occurs to the shorter male. "If you swear to knock your obnoxiously violent behavior off when it comes to me, and think nothing of my future actions, I promise to help you, Dave."

The brunet stares at the singer for a moment, utterly flabbergasted. Not only had the younger called him respectfully by his first name, but also… he was going to help him? After all the crap he put this boy through, he was going to _help?_

And something else clicks in the jock's mind. "'Future actions'?" he quotes, puzzled.

Kurt offers a small smile. He then reaches over and barely touches Dave's jaw. Then, gently, he leans over and kisses him full on the mouth.

Dave breaks the kiss in shock, blinking rapidly. A small frowns creases his brows. "I don't want the equivalency of a pity-fuck, Hummel."

"I'm impressed you know a word as long as 'equivalency,'" the other replies with a short laugh. "And that wasn't entirely out of pity," Kurt says at length, "But don't read too much into it. This doesn't mean that I like you. I'm only trying to blackmail you into ceasing your bullying of me." And he grins deviously.

Dave's mouth breaks into a grin as well. "Ha. Very clever. I guess we have a deal, then." He clears his throat and stands up. "My friends might question it, but I'll just say that I got tired of being the school jackass."

"That's the spirit," Kurt says lightheartedly as he, too, stands up. And as the smaller teen turns and leaves, muttering goodbye over his shoulder, Dave feels his heart flutter in his chest.

Because Kurt Hummel hasn't the faintest idea how fucking ecstatic he just made Dave. The jock has a small ray of hope, now, and all because those soft, pink lips were able to touch his once more.

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**Ending notes: Yeah, so there it is. Random and weird, but oh well~! **

**And you know, it makes me a little sad, because I know for a fact that this pairing won't happen. I feel bad for Dave; he most likely won't get any sort of happy ending, even though I've now grown a huge soft spot for the guy. **

**Like someone had Dave sarcastically say in another fanfic, "The Beauty and The Beauty; there's a fairy tale everyone wants to read." It's sadly true. No one wants to **_**read**_** such story, because fans like misfit pairings, but we all know that the public is different. The public is fond of too-good-to-be-true and dislikes misfit pairings. And as we all know, Klaine is what the public would like to see, and Kurtofsky is what (some) of us fans would like to see. So we can't win.**

**But that's why I like fanfiction. I can read (and write) whatever I like! So there's always that.**

**~Tootles!**


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